


but i know this

by kblaze2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, not slow burn though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kblaze2/pseuds/kblaze2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven scenes of Bucky Barnes loving Steve Rogers across a century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i know this

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from secret love song, pt. 2 by little mix, as do all the scene titles.
> 
> i wrote this way before civil war came out, so this completely ignores the canon put in place by that movie, i.e. the two year search for bucky. 
> 
> there's also a slight divergence surrounding the december 16 1991 mission. also a warning, there is slight detail into what transpires there.
> 
> un-beta'd.

 

**_1\. but i'll never show it on my face_ **

(1927: Bucky is 10 years old)

The grime in the creases of his palms gets in his eyes, but he doesn’t dare move his hands away. If Steve thought he was cheating, Bucky'd never hear the end of it. Steve may be the size of little Johnny Wilkins from down the street, but Bucky knows better than to take him for his size. Even fought on Steve's behalf more times than he can count. It's how they became friends.

" _Best_ friends," Steve wheezes in his ear at least twice a week.

"'Til the end of the line," Bucky always responds.

His knuckles scrape against the red brick he cornered himself in, but he's nearly at 50 now. He counts the numbers from 45 on out loud, yells real loud so Steve will be sure to hear from his hiding spot.

"Forty-nine… Fifty! Ready or not here I come!" he shouts, whipping around so hard his untied laces smack against his ankle. He pays them no mind and runs off in search of Steve.

Sometimes, he can hear Steve breathing real hard, or giggling to himself, but Bucky walks right on past like he didn’t hear a thing, pretending to still be looking for him. Steve's always had his problems with his breathing, lungs small enough to match his scrawny chest and knobby knees. Bucky doesn’t want Steve to get _discouraged_ — he heard their Ma's say that when they were talking upstairs — because there's already Jeremy and Billy who always tease Steve in class and make sure he can't get nowhere near the baseball mound after school. Steve acts like it doesn’t bother him, tries to act all tough, but Bucky keeps his arm wrapped tight around his friend all the way back to their street. (He can only glare over Steve's shoulder at them, his Ma and the principal said if he gets in a fight at school again he's gonna be suspended, and his Ma would hafta homeschool him and said she would never let him outta the house again.) So they play by themselves in the dirt on their street and Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. Even when Steve tries to get him to go play baseball because, " _I know you want to, Buck. You don't gotta stay here with me_ ," and Bucky tells him he's a stupid punk and pulls Steve into the house with him.

It's not Steve's wheezing that alerts Bucky to his hiding spot, though, it's the all-too-familiar yell of:

" _Steven Grant Rogers!_ " And then some crashing noises from behind, where Steve is currently freeing himself from Ms. Applebaum's flower cart as she angrily waves newspaper at him. Steve trips and falls onto his face, elbows digging into the dirt and Bucky runs to him.

"Stevie! What are you doin'? You alright?" He skids to a stop and bends down, swiping dirt off his friend's back. He gets a hand on each of his cheeks, inspecting his face for damage. There's dirt in his nose and some leaves and petals in his mouth and hair. And then, oh is that — "Steve! You're bleeding!" And he hastily fusses over Steve who makes a face and tries to touch the blood, but Bucky smacks his hand away, smoothing a hand over his head as he yanks Steve to his feet. It doesn’t take much effort before Steve is standing before him, looking up at Bucky with the sun in his hair as his eyes squint from it.

"Buck, I'm alright —"

But Bucky's shaking his head, already grabbing Steve's books from the ground. Ms. Applebaum is yelling some more, about " _Look at this mess you've made! Young man, I'm going to have a nice long talk with your mother!"_ But Bucky's off and running, pulling Steve along with him, so many _what ifs_ racing through his head because he heard his Ma and some of her friends talking about Steve and they said things like " _Poor boy, he's 'bout ready to fall right over if he gets into another one of them fights. He can only take so much. Good thing he's got Bucky."_ And Bucky has been trying his best to keep Steve safe and outta trouble, but Steve always finds some and Bucky's no better. And that kid from two streets over fell and hit his head and _died_ and Bucky keeps worrying about Steve even though he told Steve he wouldn’t because he knows Steve can worry about himself. But Bucky does _worry_.

And Steve doesn't argue when he worries about him sometimes, because it makes Bucky feel good caring about his best friend, knowing he's alright. But Steve still stamps his foot real hard whenever Bucky tries to suggest they play inside the first few weeks of spring. So he gets Mrs. Rogers to say it because Steve always listens to her.

He rushes Steve inside his house with his hand still tight around his and yells for his Ma.

She comes running towards them, pressing her hand to her chest when she realizes they're alright and out of danger. Quickly her face presses back into concern when she sees the blood and dirt caked on Steve's face and sighs. "Let me see you, dear," and she reaches her hands out to cup Steve's cheeks. Bucky stays right at Steve's side, chin hooked over his Ma's arm.

"Is he gonna be okay?" he whispers, looking up at her with wide eyes. She moves a hand to pat him on the head. Her touch is soothing, for a moment, until he opens his eyes and sees Steve again, dirty and tired. And skinny and small and wheezing and hair stuck to his forehead and Bucky tugs on his Ma's dress impatiently.

"Yes, dear, it's just a little blood. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

It was not just a little blood. After she cleaned the dirt and flowers off his face —Bucky yammering the whole time to Steve to distract him — she went in to clean up the blood from his nose and some from his chin Bucky didn’t see before. Steve talked with him for the most part, all about how he got this new book and he's been waiting to read it with Mrs. Rogers after dinner and Bucky told him he's sure that'd be fun and what kind of book is it and it can't have girls in it only scary things because then they won't be scared of those things no more especially after reading it with your Ma because she'll protect you and then you can protect her. And Steve nodded along and then all this blood started coming out of his nose and Bucky stopped talking, looking fretfully between his mother and Steve. She tipped his head back and put a rag to his face, standing him up and taking him to sit in their bathtub, and Bucky followed with his hand wrapped in his Ma's dress.

The blood stains the rag quickly and Bucky watches as his Ma moves in to help pinch Steve's nose and to clean him off with some water and to press the rag under his nose and that's it — Bucky can only watch. He's seen Steve with blood on his face before, and he's been there while he got cleaned up, but this is different because nobody was picking on Steve, it just happened and it was when they were playing hide and seek and it's Bucky's fault because Steve wanted to go draw inside but Bucky kept him out and it's _Bucky's fault_.

And then his baby sister starts crying upstairs and his Ma shoos him off to go calm her. Bucky goes up to her unwillingly, but when he gets there she's standing up in her crib and he takes her out and sits down on the floor in his lap. His hand rubs over her back and he bounces her on his knee like he's seen his Ma do and he's telling her all about the time he and Steve snuck into school during recess to get Steve's drawings back from Mrs. Jenkins. She stops crying for a while and when she starts again he changes her and takes her downstairs, humming softly to her like he does Steve sometimes when he's home sick and worrying about school when he should be resting. He can hear his Ma talking with Steve, asking how he got hurt and he hurries into the kitchen before he hears his name pop up with the blame. But Steve would never.

He sets Beth down and finds some of her baby food in the cupboard, feeding it to her and wiping the extra off her chin with the spoon. She giggles some and Bucky makes funny faces at her while she eats and she laughs some more. She stops and her mouth falls into a little "o," looking behind Bucky. Steve is there, rag in his hand and all cleaned up except his hair is still all over the place. Bucky tries not to look so relieved, just smiles at him and turns back to Beth so Steve won't know he was scared. Steve didn't seem too scared and if Steve wasn’t scared then Bucky's got no reason to be either. Steve sits next to him, bony shoulder pressed against Bucky's, breathing hard and smelling like roses. Bucky shifts closer in his chair and continues feeding Beth.

Ma comes in and takes the rag from Steve and presses a kiss to Bucky's head. She cleans up at the sink before coming over to take Beth back, who's got food all over her face. She takes another rag and cleans her off, setting her on the floor to play with some book. Steve watches, eyes big and wide, leaning onto the table.

"Ma, will you read to us?" Bucky asks and Steve's head bows down for a minute until she says yes. Bucky immediately drags Steve over to the floor with Beth, sitting on their rug and holding the book out for his Ma.

She pulls over a chair and sets Beth in her lap, taking the book and opening it to the first page. It's a fairy tale, but Bucky doesn’t mind because Steve sits with his elbows bent and chin resting on his hands as he listens, and Bucky can barely hear him breathing.

There's a part in the book that's all about what the Prince feels when he looks at this lady, and how he wants to marry her because she puts butterflies in his stomach and makes his heart feel warm. And he says the sun wouldn’t shine if she wasn’t his bride and nothing would make him happier than her becoming his Princess. Bucky's heard people talk like that before, in the theater and sometimes he hears adults talking about it too. He even heard some of the older kids talking that way about the new librarian and that nice lady at the preschool who brings Becca home sometimes. He even heard Timmy saying that about Eliza in their class and everyone else nodded their heads but Bucky didn’t. He didn’t think Eliza was all that cute to be honest. He just turned back to Steve and watched him draw some more.

Bucky looks at him now, thinking about this Prince and his bride and Timmy and Eliza and how his Ma's friends say they feel when the milkman walks down the street. Bucky thinks he feels that when he sees Steve waiting for him on his porch before school starts. Steve is smiling real big now, because the girl said yes and her and the Prince are gonna get married. He hits Bucky on the shoulder — " _Buck!"_ — and wraps his thin arm around Bucky's neck and continues looking up at his Ma. He's breathing harder now, and Bucky presses his hand to that spot on Steve's chest that relaxes his lungs, still smelling the roses in his hair.

 

**_2\. why can't it be like that?_ **

(1934: Bucky is 17 years old)

Lisa Maggiano smiles at him from across the classroom, toying with her hair. Bucky knows what she's doing; everyone knows what she's doing. He's not particularly interested, however. He knows most the class heard about him and Molly — Lisa's best friend — Friday night in the back of her father's Ford. But that was mostly motivated by the big fight he got in with Steve, causing him to storm down Sarah Rogers' front steps and into Manhattan. Steve was so _fucking stubborn_ , and all Bucky was trying to say was that Steve should see if Mrs. Mayberry would give him the winter shifts at the grocer's so he wouldn’t be so close to the water down at the docks and Steve's jaw had set and Bucky abruptly shut his mouth. That is until Steve harshly said, " _No_ ," and then Bucky just wouldn't stop talking about it. And Steve wouldn’t stop disagreeing. And Bucky hasn't spoken to him in three days.

Not that he hadn’t thought about it. After his stint with Molly (which really wasn't all that great: he kissed her with his hand on her thigh and then she gave him a shitty handjob), he walked home by himself, kicking up the dirt as he did. It wasn’t a particularly good day, and he kept thinking about Steve's angry blond head, and all Bucky wanted to do was kiss his stupidly chapped lips, but he'd gone and done that with Molly instead. Just like he'd done with many other girls before. Because it wasn’t something he could exactly tell Steve. Or anyone else for that matter. So if he found himself down at the docks with wet eyes and his dick in some guy's mouth, it was okay if he blamed it on Molly's bad job.

He'd been down there before, because surely, this thing with Steve was just a phase, but it'd been seven years since he realized what he felt and he _knew_ it wasn't. And the more he went down there, the more he found he liked it, the more he found he liked getting off with guys better. A _lot_. But it wasn’t really helpful in the Steve department, because being in love with your best friend just wasn’t something that happened, especially if they were still pining after dames, and only dames. And Bucky sure as hell couldn't take Steve out in the street like he wanted, like he saw Mr. and Mrs. Williams do every Sunday on their way to church and then lunch, like he saw Mike and his girl Brandy do all over school, like he even saw a couple of kindergartners do in the market. So he settled for the shadows of the docks and not telling Steve, all the while telling the world that everything was still in order, because he let Cindy blow him in the bathroom after the assembly last month.

So he smiles back at Lisa, even gives a wink for effect, and turns back in his chair as whispers start in the back of the room. Then their history teacher walks in and Steve's seat is empty. And he knows he's supposed to be angry with the stubborn punk but that doesn’t stop the quick beat of his heart when class starts and he's still _not there_. Bucky's used to this, though; lots of times Steve's come down with something small and missed class, because something that would be considered a cough to anybody else is bronchitis and an asthma flare up for Steve and Bucky is _worried_. He's always worried, even when Steve is walking fine and breathing normal and happy, Bucky worries. And he pretends he's not ­— he's built a knack for hiding his feelings from Steve, fraternal or otherwise ­— and Steve's none the wiser. But even when Steve's bedridden he tries to act like he's fine, and Bucky calls bullshit, he's allowed to have wrinkles between his brows. It's both of their free passes, and Bucky wants nothing more than to go to Steve right now and shut him up before he can even try to act better than he is. Preferably with a kiss. But that's far-fetched. But sometimes Steve lets Bucky hold his hand even though, " _We're not kids anymore, Buck_ ," and Bucky tries not to breathe so hard or smile too big.

He fidgets all through class and when the bell rings he's not even surprised to be called up to his teacher's desk, handed papers to take home for Steve. Because that's what he does. Twice last month. But he's never missed school after a fight, after not talking for three days, and Bucky's not quite sure what's going to happen when he turns up at his house later. But he always does. Always sits there with Steve while he works through what he missed.

He goes through the day and collects more assignments for Steve, even for the classes they don’t share. Because that's how they work.

Lisa makes a point of walking in front of him on his way out, chewing her gum flirtatiously and smiling with bright green eyes, but Bucky walks past her without much thought besides _Steve_. And he walks the path to the Rogers' that he always does, and walks right up the stairs careful of that weak spot on the second step like always, and heads into the kitchen like always. But he stops there, books on the counter and closes his eyes for a moment. Steve has been the subject of Bucky's forethought since the day he met him, fists balled and chin dirty, backed into a corner with a lot of pluck in his stare, but Bucky never realized just how important the scrawny kid with no sense of self care would end up being ­— he should’ve been prepared for the intensity of his stubbornness, though. He sighs. He really can pick 'em.

"Oh, Bucky, dear!" He turns to see Mrs. Rogers coming in the front door, nurse cap on and sweater hanging loose. "Thank you for bringing his work; poor boy started coughing Friday night, couldn't get a wink of sleep." She throws her hands in the air, passing him to go into the kitchen.

Bucky swallows. Steve had gotten sick Friday, after Bucky left, after Bucky aggravated him and his frail lungs and — he'd been sick all weekend. And Bucky hadn't known. He wasn't there. His chest tightens and he looks worriedly down the hall. If Steve wasn’t asleep he sure heard that Bucky was here.

"Go on back, dear. Just stopped in for a bit to check on him. And the soup," she laughs sweetly. "Could you make sure he eats all that? My lunch break is nearly over."

Bucky nods tightly. "Yes ma'am." He grabs his and Steve's stuff, getting a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. Rogers as he does so. She's off in a flourish, ladle resting precariously on the counter. Bucky fixes it, and sets the soup and a spoon on top of the books, turning the corner and braving something he's been avoiding for a long time.

"Buck?" Steve sits up in bed, curious, when he sees Bucky enter.

"'Course it's me, punk. Couldn’t let you play hookie and get away with it," he smirks, setting the soup on the nightstand and the books on the floor. He pulls up the chair he always sits in and leans in close, elbows on his knees. He looks at Steve, pink cheeks and damp hair, skin paler than Bucky's used to, sheets tangled around his thin legs, an abandoned pot of water and a towel at the foot of the bed. "Stevie…" he whispers, and reaches for his hand. Steve lets him hold it.

Steve doesn’t speak for a while, just clears his throat periodically, which turns into a cough, and Bucky handing him his glass of water. When Bucky sets it back down, he hears Steve's hoarse voice. "You were right."

Bucky shakes his head. "Quit it." He doesn’t want to be right, if it means Steve's sick in bed, coughing up his entire body. They've had arguments over Steve's health before, it's nothing they need to bring up again. "Just shut your trap for once, okay?"

Steve opens his mouth, and then closes it, looking down at his lap. His eyes flick to their joined hands, and his ears turn pink as well, but dammit, Bucky can be stubborn too, and isn’t letting go.

"Thanks for bringing my stuff," is what Steve settles on, and Bucky smiles wide.

"Eat up," he says, handing Steve his bowl of soup. Steve rests it on his bony chest and sips carefully. Bucky sees the sketchbook laying by his side, and gestures to it. "You draw this weekend?" And when Steve nods he knows it's an invitation to grab the book and flick through the pages. Steve gets tetchy when people go looking through his drawings without permission, and even sometimes when Bucky asks he's not allowed.

The most recent drawings feature the view from Steve's window, sometimes with the windowpanes sometimes without, a few sketches of his Ma, and one that makes Bucky stare for quite a while. It's the city, the view from that one time they went to the Empire State Building, and the detail is incredible. Everything Steve draws is incredible, but this is different. There's the multiple windows of each building on the block, the trees and their flowers, cars on the street, one on the road half off the page. The most astounding is the people; almost every single one Bucky can see Steve took care with, intimately drawing the folds of dresses and jackets, kids running and laughing and Bucky's mind flashes with the day. The sun warm on their necks and the breeze whipping through their hair, Steve laughing and sharing the bag of kettle corn Bucky bought him. He took Steve into the city for his birthday — a week early, of course, because the holiday crowd was not something he'd brave, not even for Steve — and it had been one of the best days of Bucky's life. He'd hoped it had been for Steve, too. Now he has his answer, because Steve rarely creates full spread masterpieces like this, and Bucky's heart swells.

His eyes sweep over the city street spread, taking in as much as he could. His eyes catch on a pair holding hands as they walked, and his throat swells suddenly. The things he wants with Steve are things they don’t already have, like handholding in the streets, and kisses under the stars, in front of everybody. So they all know that Bucky Barnes belongs to Steve Rogers. In every way. But his life isn’t like that. And Steve's not a dame he can take out, but he is a guy who Bucky can privately hold and share smiles with in the library.

He can feel Steve staring, so he clears his throat and turns the page. There's a sketch of himself, which isn’t a surprise. Steve draws what he knows. But the next drawing is of him, too, and the next, and the next. There's pages of him from different angles, full of detail and care. Then he almost drops the book, because there is his hand, wrapped in Steve's on this bed, how they are right now. He looks up at Steve, with his red ears and hard blinking, soup bowl empty beside him. "Steve?" When Steve turns his eyes to his, there's a look on his face that Bucky's only seen him have once. Steve was thirteen and Betty Rosenberg had skipped past them with flowers bunched in her hand and some in her hair, singing quietly to herself as she went. Steve stared after her for a long time, and Bucky's chest had flared with anger and jealousy, but he never said, never let it show. And Betty entered their class two years ago and Steve didn’t even bat an eye at her, and when Bucky mentioned it, Steve shrugged and went back to his book. Bucky didn't know what that meant, at the time.

Bucky swallows. "Thought you hated it when I held your hand?"

Steve shrugs, shirt bunching around his small shoulders. "Don't mind as much as I thought." His ears get redder, and his hand in Bucky's is considerably sweaty. Bucky doesn’t think it's entirely from his sickness.

Bucky has thought about this moment since he was ten years old and realized he was in love with Steve Rogers. He could never stomach the thought of telling Steve; _What if it ruined their friendship? Would Steve think he was a fairy and never speak to him again? Would he laugh like Bucky was pulling his leg? Steve has enough illnesses and stress without me going and putting that burden on him,_ he always told himself. He never thought Steve'd feel the same. Admitting it bed-ridden from bronchitis, no less.

"Stevie," Bucky whispers. He moves the book to the side and sits on the bed, Steve's thin legs against his thigh. He glances at the window across from the bed and sees the curtains mostly closed over it. Steve is looking at him, eyes blue and watery, and Bucky's heart beats fast. He gestures with his hand, _Can I?_ , and Steve nods. Bucky scoots closer, hand cupping Steve's cheek, and he hesitates before leaning in. He's dreamed about kissing Steve for so long, and now that the moment's here, he stops. He looks at Steve, his best friend in the whole world, and smiles real big. His fingers rest in the damp hair at Steve's nape, and Steve —

"You gonna kiss me or what?"

And that's his Steve, bold and brazen and impatient and a downright punk.

"Shut up, I was having a moment." And then Steve's smiling, too, and Bucky leans in and kisses him. Steve's lips are chapped and meet Bucky's with surprise, but he quickly eases into it. Bucky feels fireworks going off in his chest, better than the kind he watches with Steve from the top of his building on Fourth of July. Steve's hand rests on Bucky's waist and he kisses him back fiercely, and Bucky can't recall Steve ever telling him about his first kiss. He pulls back. Steve's mouth is red and he looks the happiest Bucky's ever seen him. He breathes deep. "So…this is okay? You're not freaked out by kissing another fella?"

"Not when it's you I'm kissin'," Steve responds brightly. Bucky grins. "Been thinking about doing it since we got caught in that storm at Coney Island," Steve admits. Bucky was thirteen and Steve coughed all the way home, soaking wet and leaning on Bucky, and Bucky gladly kept his hand around Steve's waist.

"Beat you there," he says. "Been thinking about this since I was ten."

"Jesus —"

Bucky kisses him again, and Steve more or less obliges without complications. He holds one of Steve's hands because this is a place where he can, and he presses further into him as they kiss behind the curtain. This moment isn't anything like how Bucky imagined it would be.

It's better.

 

**_3\. i wonder if it ever will change_ **

(1938: Bucky is 21 years old)

Bucky knows Steve's body better than his own. He's spent almost all his life around those knobby knees and hard shoulders, more time looking at that stubborn face than he has his own mug. The last six years all Bucky's done is learn every possible part of Steve in every possible way, tracing the ridges under his skin with his lips, pressing his nose into the dips in Steve's body, hand traveling along every bit of him. He's accustomed to squeezing a hand over Steve's shoulder when someone rubs him the wrong way, knows when to clasp a fist over his suspenders to stop him from getting into another fight, loves the way he can help Steve relax with just a graze of fingers over his wrist on the street, or press of lips between his shoulder blades in their dingy apartment.

Which is why he knows something's wrong the minute he steps into the apartment, Steve slumped on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

The thing is Steve knows Bucky just as well. He's spent just as long familiarizing himself with every part of Bucky's body, skin, mind — well, Buck may have him beat there, having pressed hands to his chest and shoulders to calm his lungs and aches before they started necking in Steve's bedroom. But Steve has spent his whole life with Bucky practically, because Bucky is just as stubborn and rarely isn’t found at Steve's side. Especially when the sound of wet coughs fill their entire street and Steve is sweating in his bed because it's always _something else_ with him. Steve calls it smothering, still does, because he's a punk like that, and Bucky knows Steve secretly enjoys it, just like how Steve knows Bucky just feels better if he's rubbing his thumbs in the spot between Steve's shoulders on a bad day because it makes Bucky feel less like a useless lump when he can do something with his _hands_ , because he ain't no doctor, ain't no miracle worker and can't _fix_ Steve and his nasty bloody noses when the first weeks of summer roll around. And Steve — took Bucky a long time to get him to admit this — admires Bucky's never ending tenacity in trying to help, especially when he's trying to help Steve. Even when Steve's particularly riled up and _cranky_ and tells Bucky to _shove off, jerk, I ain't no baby_ to which Bucky responds with something smart like _do I look like a nanny to you, Rogers? I ain't tryna bottle feed you or change your diaper, punk, just lie down_ and Steve usually does because he knows that stance of Bucky's means he's never going to give up and the look in his eyes shows how fucking furious he is with Steve, how much he just wants him to get better. And Bucky's not a very expressive guy, but Steve _knows_ because that's how they are. Quiet and subtle and speaking volumes.

So when Bucky sits himself next to Steve on their ratty mattress, Steve immediately mumbles, "'M fine, Buck," and does a stupid little shrug that most definitely means he's _not_ fine and _wants_ to talk about it, because Steve Rogers is a little shit who tries to act like everything's okay even when the sink is fucking spewing brown water at them and they've been boiling rice for three days straight because that's all they can afford and Buck can't find another job and every drawing Steve does ends up in a crumpled ball on the floor. Because Steve won't say anything if you don't _make_ him, and that's the problem. No one knows this but Bucky, not even his Ma caught it. Bucky's tired of making Steve share what's going on in that hard head of his. And he knows why Steve doesn't, and he wishes that Steve would realize how important he is — how important he is to _Bucky_ , who really can't handle when Steve is feeling shitty in a way that's got nothing to do with being sick — and say when something's bothering him, but Willy McGuire beat that outta him when he was only five years old and Bucky paid him back for that a coupla years later without telling Steve. Bucky grits his teeth.

"Bullshit," he says. Bucky always gets to Steve to speak up, so he just doesn’t understand _why_ Steve tries to pretend nothing's wrong when he's around him, because Bucky can always tell and Steve always knows when Bucky's figured it out. But Steve Rogers, again, is a little shit. Bucky puts an arm around him and kisses above his ear. "I ain't believin' it for a second, sweetheart." And Steve promptly blushes, which is the effect Bucky was going for. Because then he relaxes, pressing his hard side into Bucky's. The pet name first fell off Bucky's lips a little after they shared their first kiss; an accidental whisper into the crook of his neck and fumbled apologies with darting eyes and beet red cheeks before Steve realized, he kinda liked it, and Buck liked it a whole lot, loving on Steve with the words from his mouth that aren't rough and begging for trouble like his teachers always used to say. He mostly uses it to be a real pain in the ass, while also being generally in love with Steve. But even when he uses it completely to be a jerk, red creeps down Steve's neck and up his head anyways, and then Bucky just _has_ to kiss him. Bucky can’t pass up an opportunity to get his mouth on Steve Rogers when his lips are pouted and Bucky can tip his head up and kiss him by surprise.

Steve groans into Bucky's shoulder, because even though this whole charade was just so Bucky would ask and Steve could say, Steve will never not have problems actually saying, even when he wants to so bad he's wringing his hands and got a knot in his shoulder the size of a baseball. Bucky rubs the tension away and waits for Steve to talk anyways, because he's done his part already and now it's Steve's turn to talk. And Bucky's tired of _making him_.

"Rough day," is what he settles on, and Bucky figures it's a start. Steve leans more into his side, hiding his face in Bucky's shoulder. His breath is ragged and warm against Bucky, and Bucky keeps rubbing at his back until he's ready. It's quiet for a few moments before Steve speaks again. "Thomas won the contest, and we got our grades back for the self-exploration piece and I didn’t do too hot, and then the gas from the kiln gave me an asthma attack and the steam made me all sweaty and I slipped and dropped the bowl I made and Lennon just sent me home because I'm a real mess." Steve sighs, curling more into Bucky, and Bucky wraps an arm around him. "Oh, and the rent's due Tuesday."

"Stevie," Bucky whispers. Usually Steve isn't so affectionate when he's had a bad day, so Bucky takes what he's got and presses his lips to his forehead, Steve's skin salty and warm. "The only reason you're a mess is because you're willingly shacking up with a schlepp like me. And cause that mouth of yours always gets you in trouble." He can feel Steve's breathing change against his chest: a laugh. "Besides, you didn’t go a drop a whole order of rice on the shop floor and get stuck cleaning it up before being banished to the back room."

"Yeah, but no one can stay mad at your stupid mug for too long, I'm sure it'll be right as rain tomorrow," Steve says, shrugging.

Bucky squeezes his shoulder. "But then I saw a _rat_. And it crawled all over me. And I screamed. Loud. Like a _girl_."

Steve chuckles then, sitting up to look at Bucky. "A rat, Buck? We see those everyday, skittering on the street. I can't believe I picked such a _weenie_."

Bucky squawks, squaring his shoulders and poking at Steve's arm. "And you're stuck with me. I ain't going nowhere, pal. You're gonna have to up and leave me in the night, and then you wouldn’t get but two blocks because you forgot your asthma cigarettes. Then you'd realize how much you love me, and can't live without me."

"Jerk," Steve says, bumping his shoulder. He doesn’t deny it. "Did you really spill a whole box of rice?"

" _Three_ ," Bucky says proudly, holding up his fingers. "And then I stepped in a nasty puddle on the way over here. _And_ got roped into another lecture by Mrs. Applebaum about her garden and how I should find a nice dame who likes to garden because it'll spruce up the place."

"We got mold in the bathroom," Steve suggests. "It'll water itself with that leak in the toilet." He grins at Bucky and Bucky grins right back. They’ve long since gotten used to everyone telling them (Bucky) that it's near time to find a dame to settle down with, take her out in the street and treat her nice and well and raise a coupla kids, take the family to church and breakfast every week. They usually pass it off by cracking jokes at each other instead, and it's the _secrecy_ of it all that makes it so damn funny. They end up doubled over until they get a weird eye and left alone by whoever admonished them, and they walk home with arms slinked around each other and laughing, because that's one thing that'll never change. It's one thing that's still okay.

"Sounds like a plan, I'll ask her tomorrow what plants survive best in dingy, infested homes," Bucky says, leaning back on the mattress. Then he turns and kisses Steve for a little bit, and Steve kisses him right back, hand at his waist. It's slow and soft and tender and everything Bucky's been needing after today. He figures Steve's been needing it, too.

"Sorry about your class," he says when they pull back. Steve spent a long time working on that drawing, and the painting for the scholarship contest. And Buck saw Thomas' piece, and it was mediocre and sloppy and Steve should've definitely won. "Fuck 'em," he shrugs, nosing Steve's cheek.

"No can do, I'm a one guy kinda man," Steve responds, that signature smirk of his on his wet lips.

Fuck.

"Punk," Bucky says before racing back into Steve's space, pressing his lips hard to his.

Steve's lips are soft, no longer stuck in the hard frown they were earlier. His hands fit between Steve's back and suspenders, and Steve lets himself fall back onto the mattress. His small hands clasp together behind Bucky's neck, sending a chill down Bucky's spine. His legs surround Steve's hips and he pushes farther into him, into the mattress.

Bucky knows exactly what to do to make Steve tick, make him wriggle until he's panting Bucky's name — just enough that it's bearable for his weak lungs — but Bucky isn’t going to do that. Not today.

No, today — today Bucky presses kisses to every part of Steve he can reach. Starting with the tips of his ears, his jaw, his neck — there he licks a stripe just because — his collarbones, shoulders, elbows, chest, stomach, wrists. Each finger. These tools of Steve that vessel his imagination to the paper. Pencils and charcoal between the thin fingers, in careful hands. Concentrated thought and beauty. Bucky loves these hands, and the art they create. The gentle way they handle the potatoes in the kitchen. The soft tapping against Bucky's wrist. Running through his strings of blond hair. Running through Bucky's hair. Tangled in their sheets. Wrapped around him in the shower. Bucky trails his lips over his knuckles once more, before moving to his hips. He digs his nose in the divots there, Steve startling beneath his touch. He pulls Steve's shirt out of his pants, and lets his lips ghost over the pale exposed skin there.

Bucky takes his time and care with Steve, so much like Steve does with everything in his reach. Bucky makes a show of sweeping his eyes over Steve's body as he peels off every piece of clothing. Takes his time appreciating everything of the man below him, as the blush rises to Steve's cheeks and all over his torso. Bucky grins, and kisses Steve hard and sloppy, peppering his mouth all over Steve's face. "So beautiful, Stevie," he whispers over his nipples, Steve's hand stalling in where it was wrapped in the tufts of Bucky's hair. Bucky saves these moments, this intimacy, for the privacy of their sheets, the presence of skin. Because Bucky could say it twenty times in his ear at the market, or even over dinner, but Steve will never accept it, never believe Bucky when he admires over any and every facet of him. Bucky hates that. But in a way, it's a blessing, that he gets to speak so _honest_ in these moments, these moments when he's tangled with Steve and Steve takes it in then, turning red all over and kissing Bucky deep with those damn pink lips of his. Steve _listens_ in these moments, and Bucky doesn’t let them go to waste. Tells Steve everything he loves through presses of his lips and whispers against his skin, tells Steve everything and anything to make him _know_ just how extraordinary he is. How he's always got Bucky, even when the sink is spewing brown water at them and they've been eating rice for three days and Buck can't find another job and Steve crumples more of his drawings in one week than he has in the past two months. Bucky's with him 'til the end of the line.

 

**_4\. we got a love that is homeless_ **

(1944: Bucky is 27 years old)

The fire crackles loudly between them, the only sound in the night. They've been stuck in the French countryside for three days now, wandering their way along the tree lines as they try to locate another Hydra base. Now, though, they have orders to wait. To _wait_. In the forest. With nothing to do but play poker for dwindling rations and listen for the voice on the radio tellin' them they can _move_. Bucky hates waiting, hates sitting here, ass going numb on a log when he could be staring through the scope of his rifle, breathing deep and taking down Nazis. And watching Steve's six. The punk will never learn.

Bucky shakes his head and looks at him now, smiling soft at something Morita and Falsworth are going on about. Dugan long since passed out, slumped against a tree, cap over his face. Jones sits and watches, quietly translating to Dernier when he seems interested enough or when they say something particularly funny. Mostly though, it's silent, and there's an air of contentment surrounding his men, even though everyone is restless and anxious to get back out there. Of course, a few days of extra sleep and time to stretch some limbs never goes underappreciated.

Steve looks back at Bucky, big and broad and blond hair shining in the firelight. His hair's a lot softer now that he's the size of a mountain — Bucky can tell just from looking at it, and from where his fingers rest there when Steve presses his forehead against his behind the closed flap of his tent, where his fingers stop when they lay to sleep. He's still not used to all this extra Steve, still presses his hand to the front of his chest when they rest, even though the angle is unfamiliar. It's a habit that'll never go away, and Bucky doesn’t want it to. After everything that's happened, all the time they've spent apart, all the hell they've faced, all the changes, there are some things that stay… them. Steve still hogs all the blankets and still frowns with that dimple between his brow and still touches Bucky with his gentle hands and still holds his gaze intently across a room for a moment too long, just to let Bucky _know_. And Bucky still takes it, still rubs his thumb on that spot on Steve's back, still throws his arm around him and laughs with his entire body, still sticks by Steve's side and stares down anyone who tries to take advantage — which, surprisingly, is more often now that there's some of him to take advantage of.

And everyone around them still definitely knows that it's Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes all the way through, and there's nothing they can do to change that. Phillips tried but quickly learned its futility, and Agent Carter and the rest of the Howlies could tell from first glance that it wasn’t gonna happen. That should probably scare Buck, it being that obvious, but he just got his best friend back, and he ain't letting him out of his sight one more time. He made that mistake once and was lucky enough to have Steve come back to him.

"Hey," Steve nudges him lightly, bending his head to get closer to Bucky. He never had to do that before. "You should get some sleep. Never know when we're gonna get called back in." Steve's smile is warm and honest, just like the rest of him, and Bucky wants desperately to kiss him. But.

He swallows thickly and shakes his head. "Nah, 'm good."

"Buck," Steve warns, but Bucky just shakes his head again. He knows he hasn’t been getting much sleep — hell, he hasn’t been getting _any_ sleep, but there's no point in closing his eyes only for them to rip open minutes later to make the dreams fade away.

Steve's face is written with worry, eyes soft but they stare hard at Bucky, that signature 'Captain America is disappointed in you' look, but Bucky's been getting that since Captain America was a tiny towheaded kid rubbing dirt off his chin and tripping up stairs, and Bucky usually wins. Usually.

Bucky's really only slept sound when they're back at base, sharing a bed in a tent with two, arm wrapped around Steve's middle, breathing in tandem. That hasn’t happened for about two months, the cold forest ground doing nothing to calm him. Only reminds him of that table in Azzano. A small man with round glasses and a lot of needles.

Bucky clenches his jaw and looks back at the fire, before getting up and pretending to go take a piss. He goes until he can't see them, but he can still hear them. 'Course, now, he could probably go a mile out and still hear them, but he won't tell Steve that. Won't tell anyone that.

That's why it isn’t a surprise when Steve slinks up behind him, resting his hands on Bucky's shoulders. "It's just me," he says.

"Of course it is," Bucky says. "What other idiot would come and sneak up on a man in the middle of the woods like that?" He turns his face away from the tree he was leaning on, smiling big at Steve.

Steve shoves him lightly. "Jerk."

Bucky only smiles more. And then Steve's in his space. And his hands are on Bucky and he's kissing him hard against this tree in the middle of the goddamn French nowhere and Bucky's hands are in Steve's hair and it's.

It's perfect.

Bucky kisses Steve slow, making up for all their lost time. He kisses him long and hard and tender, pulling Steve in by his stupid utility belt. Steve's hands find their way to Bucky's waist the way they always do, warm and gentle. His hands are a lot bigger now, fingers spanning more of Bucky's body than before, and Bucky relishes the touch. He pushes up against Steve's body, neck craning a little to slip his tongue in his mouth. Steve surrounds him; just them alone in the forest, pressed together and tangled up, touching in every way they were made to do, every way they've missed.

Steve's hands roam Bucky's back, sliding down farther and —

"Steve," Bucky whispers, shaking his head lightly. He _wants_ , so much, but they'd never get away with it. It's too risky, and then they'll be switching Bucky to a different unit or sending Steve home, because Captain America can't be a queer, for God's sake, and everything will just fall apart around them. Bucky doesn’t enjoy the feeling in his chest when it's tight with want, but inhibited by their surroundings; he doesn’t like the feeling of _almost_ : almost being caught, almost finished, almost free. "They're gonna notice we're gone eventually," he breathes into Steve's mouth, running his tongue over his teeth, regardless.

Steve shrugs. "They think I went to talk to you because you looked like there was a stick up your butt." He chases Bucky's lips, kissing him three more times. "Which, I kind of did," Steve admits. He stops now, hands still on Bucky's back, thumbs drawing circles through his shirt. He looks down at him, eyes blue and wide, imploring and concerned.

Bucky sighs. He knows what Steve wants to hear, he wants to hear all the things Bucky can't say: _I haven't slept in two months because every time I try I feel like I'm back on that God awful table, thinking I'm never gonna see you again, so it's easier to just stay awake and watch you sleep instead even though now you can breathe fine through the night and don’t need me mothering you like that. Don't need me at all, now that you're all big and a Captain and healthy. And Agent Carter is plenty a looker, and is a much better fit for you than me, but neither of us will admit it, so I just sit here with my headache waiting for the day I can do what I can do best, shoot some Hydra assholes down and watch your six. Get you home safe and sound._

"Just tired of sitting here, is all," he shrugs, not meeting Steve's eye. Which is a big mistake, because he always looks Steve in the eye when he speaks. But he. Can't. And Steve doesn’t miss a thing.

"Bucky," he cajoles softly, running his hands down his arms now. He presses his lips against Bucky's forehead, breathing deep. Bucky closes his eyes when Steve speaks. "We've only got a coupla more bases left; we'll be back at camp in no time. Hell, we'll probably be home soon."

Bucky doesn’t think that's true at all. He's been fighting this war for three years now, given all he's got, and he doesn’t think he'll be getting out anytime soon. "That's not — Steve, I can't —"

Steve cuts him off with a hard kiss, pushing Bucky back against the tree. His hands cup Bucky's cheeks, fingers thrumming lightly against his skin. Steve licks into his mouth, angling Bucky's neck up farther, getting the tips of his fingers in the hair at his nape. Bucky gets his hands around Steve's waist, flattening his hands against his back, underneath his jacket. He sucks down on Steve's tongue, pulling him closer to him. Steve's legs fit between Bucky's, brushing up against him, and Bucky exhales hard and long into Steve's mouth.

This. This is still the same. Steve's lips are just as chapped as ever, just as soft as ever, fitting into Bucky's mouth the way they did way back in 1934, and it's ten years later and Steve's are still the only lips Bucky wants to kiss. Steve told him the same, that night he confessed Peggy had kissed him, a coupla months after he got the Howlies together. Steve gripped the collar of Bucky's jacket hard, knuckles turning white and he leaned his forehead down against Bucky's and whispered apologies and promised, _only you, Buck,_ and brushed his lips over every part of Bucky.

Bucky wasn’t all that bothered. He was glad someone was interested in Steve (in the way Bucky had been since '27), and Peggy was one of the few who have appreciated Steve in this way — not just for his serum-enhanced body. And he saw them, sometimes, the easy way Steve would lean into Peggy's space as they chatted, the way he would joke with her as if she was Becca, the way he would trust her as if she was his own mother. Or Bucky, for that matter. And it would tighten something in his chest, whenever Bucky saw them, but he never let Steve know. Because he doesn’t want Steve to think he _has_ to stay stuck with Bucky, just because of the past ten years. He wants Steve to have a choice, because everyone else would make them for him before, with their pursed lips and eyes staring down their noses, brushing past Steve like he wasn’t worth talking to. Only when they realized he was with Bucky did they seem to have an interest in him, or pretended to, at least. Things are the other way around now.

But. _But_ — Steve always comes back to Bucky. Always finds a way to slip out of whatever conversation or tactical meeting he was drawn into and close the flap behind him when he enters their tent; always finds his hand under the dark of night as they wind through forest after forest; always finds Bucky when he goes off on nights like these; always finds his mouth under all the armor Bucky puts up to protect him from the realities of war and Hydra. Steve constantly tells him he loves him like this, with his mouth or his hands, with his words or with his looks. _'Til the end of the line_ , he keeps whispering against Bucky's mouth before he returns himself to the responsibilities as Captain.

He pulls back from Bucky now, keeping his hands in his hair. "I know," is all he says, because he probably does. Erskine told Steve the serum only amplified what was inside the man, and Steve was clever enough at 90 pounds. Steve doesn’t know that Bucky has a version of that very same serum flowing through his veins, though. "I don’t sleep well, either," Steve lies — Bucky knows because he watches him every night, and Steve sleeps soundless, curled in a ball just like he would when it was all he could do to stay warm. And Steve doesn’t know why Bucky really can't sleep, not anymore. "Without you there next to me, it's harder. It's not the same, and I wish —"

"No," Bucky stops him. This is an old argument, and Bucky doesn’t want to have it again. Telling the Howlies he and Steve are queer for each other is just possibly the _last_ thing on Bucky's list of options for getting him and Steve in the same bed again. The first is kill every Nazi in sight and it ranges down to shooting him and Steve in the feet and sending them home. He draws the line at being sent home for being in love with another man, though. Although, if he thinks about it, he thinks it'd be okay, if they did tell them. Dernier, Jones, and Morita would probably be fine, give a shrug and reload their guns. He thinks Dugan would take some time, though, a lot of time. And a lot of trust has to go into a decision like that, and Bucky's not confident it wouldn't backfire on them. He's not sure about Falsworth, but he thinks he'd take less convincing than Dugan, at the least.

"I wasn’t even gonna say that," Steve sighs exasperatedly into Bucky's hair, breath warm against his ear. "I just wish we were back in our crappy apartment in Brooklyn, where I could kiss you as much as I wanted without having to worry about anyone seeing." He traces his lips over Bucky's neck, darting his tongue out intermittently.

"Yeah, but you could be out necking some girl on the street and no one would look twice," Bucky counters and Steve's mouth goes still.

"Is this about Peggy?" he asks angrily, eyes scanning over Bucky's face. "Buck, I told you, it only happened once and I don’t — I don’t want to kiss anyone else."

"But you like her," Bucky says softly, meeting Steve's eyes this time, to gauge his reaction.

Steve's mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally lets words fall out. "Honestly? Yeah, I do. She treats me like a human being and enjoys my company. And sure, she's attractive, and not a bad kisser, but I don't love her like I love you, Buck. I love her like I loved Ma. You — you're a whole different level, Buck. You're it for me. Don't know how I can make it any clearer." He laughs tightly, shaking his head so close to Bucky that his blond hair brushes his forehead. "I meant it when I said 'til the end of the line, you know."

"I know," Bucky assures him quickly. "I meant it, too. Just —"

"I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t think you were _this_ stupid," Steve laughs, nuzzling his nose against the shell of Bucky's ear.

"Shut up, punk," Bucky says, carding his fingers through Steve's hair. Bucky'll do this every night, for the rest of his life, if it'll keep Steve humming like that in his ear. He will, actually. Every night home from the war, back in their little apartment, kissing along Steve's back until his breathing evens out and he slips into sleep. Bucky smiles against Steve's cheek, pulling him in for another kiss. It's long and sweet and everything Bucky's been holding onto since Steve pulled him off the table in Azzano. Everything Bucky's been saying before that, since 1934. Well, before that, too, but Steve just didn’t know at the time.

Steve breathes happily into Bucky's mouth, kissing him with the same smile on his face that Bucky has.

"Kinda gotta pee now," Bucky mumbles against Steve's mouth.

Steve laughs against him, shaking his head. "Jerk," he says, pushing Bucky back against the tree, before walking back out to their makeshift camp.

Soon everyone will want to sleep, if they haven’t fallen over their logs already, and Bucky will take first watch, like he always does, eyes following the rise and fall of Steve's chest as he sleeps peacefully. But Bucky thinks that's alright, it doesn’t matter what happens to him, as long as Steve is alright. Gets home safe.

 

**_5\. i don’t wanna hide us away_ **

(1991: The Asset is awake)

22:53.

Winter, most likely. The sun had been set for hours and the temperature was approximately 4.3 °C. He knows the year from a torn newspaper at his feet.

The rendezvous point was a building on the edge of the city, 33 feet from the point where the target would appear.

The target came into view at 21:36. A black town car driving around the corner. The Asset shot through the tires first. The car skidded wildly across the street. A shot through the gas tank and the back of the car bucked up before it flipped completely. Its momentum carried it into a tree and another line of cars on the street. The Asset stepped out into the street, approaching the target at 2.5 mph. Two people inside — a man and a woman — nearly unconscious. Blood. Fire. The flames surrounded the car, and The Asset was told to complete the mission. A shotgun aimed at two heads. The woman went down. The man had turned his face and —

Brown eyes. Facial hair. A hand on his shoulder. A truck in the snow covered forest. Stark —

The gun went off and the man's head slumped against the window.

The Asset reported back to base.

22:55.

Many handlers rip off his clothing, removing each weapon with ease. He sits still in a tub, cloth rubbing roughly at his skin. His eyes sting. The water is cold. He is naked. He stares at the wall. The chair is there. Pierce is there. Pierce smiles at him. He is freezing.

His arm is yanked. The metal one is in a vice. The hands continue to pour cold water over his skin. He distantly thinks —

— Softer hands. A smaller body. A dirtier tub. Warmer water. A sponge. Blue eyes. Blond hair. He knows it was winter then, too. Because he always had to relax the muscles and lungs in the tiny man's body during the cold, when he was sickest.

In a tent. Dark and silent. Hands on him. The body against him bigger than before. The water is tepid. His mouth is warm on his. His hands are warm also, as they roam down his body. A whisper, " _Come on, Buck."_

He jerks his body, arm taking out a handler. He's yelling. Crying. "не до конца линии," he hears himself saying. He doesn’t know what it means. A flash of blue eyes again.

A sting against his cheek. His back. A needle in his neck and then —

Nothing.

He wakes up in the chair. His neck is stiff and both arms are clamped down now. There are three straps across his upper body, and one around each ankle. He tastes blood. Running his tongue over his mouth, he finds his top lip swollen around a gash there. There are no stitches. This is his punishment.

"Do you know how you got that?" Pierce asks him, coming into the room.

"What is my name?" he asks instead. He doesn't get an answer. Just another slap to the face. He wants to ask, _Who was the blond man?_ but knows no more of an answer lies behind that question than the one he just asked. Even if Pierce knew, he wouldn’t tell him. He's learned that over the years.

Years? He's not sure exactly how long Pierce has been here, and he struggles to think of an answer. He panics; he should know this. He is insufficient in his intelligence. He won't be able to deliver a full mission report. He's not supposed to leave any gaps. He eyes Pierce's hand, his heart rate picking up. 189 beats per minute. Unacceptable.

His head shakes. And he can't stop. He holds his breath. He thrashes in the chair, head aching. His heart still pounds wildly and — _why won't it stop it needs to stop this is unacceptable you're going to be punished_ —

Yelling. Another needle.

His eyes snap open and he's still in the chair. There is an unmistakable chill in his body. He was in cryo. He can't gauge how long, so he looks at the handlers around him, milling about with more purpose now that they see he's awake. None of them looked like they've aged much, so he estimates it was under four months.

"There's a new mission," Pierce says, entering the room. He sits across from him. "Recon. Extraction. The targets from the last mission — what were their names?"

He frowns. There is a bitter taste in his throat. His neck is burning. His hand throbs and he realizes he's been clenching it in a fist. He relaxes his hand. Pierce stares at him. Cold. Hard.

"I do not know," he admits, bracing himself for a beating. Nothing of the sort happens.

"Howard and Maria Stark," Pierce provides. He eyes him, and is handed a file. "You've done a great service to the development of our nation — our world — by taking them out. We will progress further now that they are not here to hinder us. You're making the world great again. Soon, it will all fall together. And it'll be all thanks to you." Pierce's hand is on his knee, squeezing, and his thigh jerks under his hand. His throat grows tight and his eyes hot — he does not understand what is happening to his body. Has the hand touched him before? Is this how his body reacts to Pierce's hand? Why can't he remember?

Pierce continues, hand sliding away. He immediately feels relief. "We need you to return to their place of residence — ensure nothing and no one slipped our fingers. Do not fail. You have 13 hours to do a thorough sweep of the place, destroy anyone that attempts to stop you, destroy anything like these."

He is presented with images, immediately committing them to memory. He will not fail.

"Return to base: 23:30. Do not be late." Pierce stands, and handlers come over to remove the restraints from around his body.

"What is my name?" he repeats. He has realized it hasn’t been too long since he last asked, if he is doing recon on a previous take out. One of the handlers yanks his hair and knocks his head into the back of the chair. He does not react.

Pierce turns, not protesting the punishment bestowed upon him. "James," he says. He points a finger at him — at James. "Do not ask this again."

James' arm is immediately twisted excruciatingly, a hot pain burning throughout all of his body. He will not ask again. "Acknowledged." He suspects they'll take this memory from him, too.

James becomes The Asset.

His mind focuses on the property before him, disabling cockamamie alarms set in place by the man — Howard, he was told. Something flashes in his brain, but it's not strong enough to be a memory. Doesn't matter; irrelevant to the mission. Will only distract. He gets into the house fine, through a window and onto the first floor. There is someone asleep in the chair. Another walks through the doorway to his left with a box. She stops. Her mouth opens. The gun goes off. The person in the chair screams. The bullet goes into their mouth.

He quickly scans the house for any more bodies, listening for any raspy breaths, looking for anyone trying to flee. There is no one.

He finds some of the items Pierce requested in the basement, behind a false wall. He destroys them. There are more things, more contraptions and inventions, files and vials. He is not sure what to do, so he destroys them as well. Pierce said to destroy anything similar, so he does.

Then, there is one file, open on a desk. There is a picture of a glowing cube of some sort, and his brain supplies _Tesseract_ before he has even laid a hand on it. He startles. The word is clear in his mind, and clear on the paper written before him. Has it been involved with another mission? Was he to obtain this? Has he seen it — before? He moves the picture aside, reading the scribbling written underneath it.

Some words catch at his brain, nagging at his neurons. _Johann Schmidt. Arnim Zola. The Atlantic Ocean. Hydra. Captain America_ —

Steve Rogers.

His mind flashes with those blue eyes again, pale skin and blond hair. A warm smile. A cold winter. Hands on his chest. Steve Rogers kissing him. Steve Rogers holding his hand. Steve Rogers smiling at him. Steve Rogers talking in his ear.

" _Love you, Buck. 'Til the end of the line,"_ _Steve whispered into his skin behind some trees, snow in his hair._

_"You realize that's smack face into the middle of a mountain," he replied. And Steve smiled._

_The wind picked up around them, whipping hair in his face. Jones fiddled with a radio fifty feet away. He could hear the static. Dugan and Morita were looking over papers and parameters, Dernier looking off at the train tracks with binoculars._

_"You're such a jerk," Steve said, laughing into his shoulder. Steve's hand curled around his neck, and he pressed soft kisses there._

_He replied in kind, lips pressed to the skin of Steve's forehead, the hair on top of his head. He swallowed, gripping Steve's side hard. "'Til the end of the line," he repeated, because he knew Steve needed to hear it. He took Steve's face in his hands, pulled his forehead down with his. "Once we get Zola, we'll get Schmidt, and then we'll get back to camp, and I swear to God I'm going to take you to bed right. Right in Phillips' bed if we hafta, I don’t care. The world's gonna celebrate, and you may be Captain America, but you're_ mine _to celebrate with, Steve Rogers." He didn’t say he completely belonged to Steve though, because if Steve didn't know that by now, then he's been doing something wrong with his life. He kissed Steve hard and Steve kissed him back, one hand on his waist and one in his hair. He deepened the kiss for a moment, his own hands spanning Steve's back._

_Steve leaned back, breath fanning out onto his face. "I'm yours, Buck."_

The Asset — James — stumbles back, dropping the file in hand.

Steve. Steve had been there all his life. He remembers. He — Steve had loved him.

Steve had died. They told him. He remembers. There were pictures and newspaper clippings and electric shocks to his chest. There was immense pain in his hands and he cried. Steve had died. They used it against him. And it worked. He let it work. Because there was no point in fighting if there wasn’t anything to get back to. Steve was all he had and then there was nothing. Blackness. Empty. Those spots in his brain specifically for Steve were wiped and programmed to kill — all the love turned into hate, bred under Hydra's hand to be the very weapon Captain America would fear. The very weapon to go against a nation that just lost its greatest hero.

But. They told him. He was saving that nation. He was changing the world. He _changed_ the world, and left a trail of blood in his wake. The world was redder, dirtier, emptier because of what he did. And they praised him for it. He thought he was doing it for Steve — because if Captain America couldn’t change the world like he damn well thought Steve could, then he was going to try his hardest to get it done after him. But. That was all wrong. Lies. Cold blood. Russia.

If Steve knew all he did —

He stops thinking. There are tears rolling down his cheeks. He is sitting on the floor. There's a picture of Steve clutched in his hand.

All he had was Steve. From the time he was ten to fifteen, crying over the pain that ripped a hole in his chest because he was in love with his best friend, he couldn’t be in love with his best friend, that was wrong, that was — but Steve kissed him back. Steve held him tight under the covers. Steve traced his bones with thin, delicate fingers, and then with broad and thick hands. Steve. Steve was warm. When he was wrapped in fear over the war, Steve pulled him out. Steve always did that. But he wasn’t there to pull him from that mountain pass, to save him from Zola once again. And now he was The Asset. He wasn’t any James —

_"James Buchanan Barnes!" Ms. Applebaum hollered down the street. He stared down at Thomas Richardson, who had blood flowing from his nose and dripping into the dirt. His fist ached so he kicked Thomas in the groin._

_"Bucky! Stop it," Steve begged, scrambling to his feet, his own nose bleeding._

_He — Bucky ­— helped Steve stand, and kept a tight hand around his waist even though he didn’t need to, and Steve didn’t want it._

_"Stop picking fights, young man," Ms. Applebaum admonished, smacking him upside the head. "Still as pigheaded as you were at the age of seven, I swear. You got no reason to be going around punching people —"_

_"But it's okay for him to punch Steve? It's okay for everyone else to pick on him, but the second I come in here and teach 'em a lesson —"_

_"They ain't students, James. They don’t need no lessons. You keep going around punching people, you're gonna need one. Don’t think just because you don’t live with your Mamma no more don’t mean I won't be telling her about this. Now, go 'n get." She shooed a hand at the pair of them. "Go get him cleaned up. I don’t wanna hear about anymore fights, you hear me, young man?"_

_Bucky mumbled something and dragged Steve off, mentally cursing the woman in his head._

_"Stop that," Steve said, leaning into Bucky despite being angry. Despite the fact that he never liked when Bucky came in and knocked down whoever was messing with Steve, because it made Steve feel like a dame, and he ain't no dame that need his honor defended. Bucky always told him it wasn’t like that, and Steve told him he could handle himself on his own, but Bucky always came in and got him if he could, and Steve always got mad, and it would go like this. "Stop killing that woman ten ways 'til Sunday in your head."_

_"Who do you think I am? Killing her ten ways 'til Sunday — Steve, that's the Lord's day, ain't no murder on the Lord's day. I'll get her Saturday. Then absolve myself Sunday." He grinned down at Steve, and Steve just shook his head._

_"Rat bastard. She was just making sure her best customer was alright. You know Thomas' Ma goes to get her veggies from her every other day."_

_"Doesn’t mean he gets to go around punching people," Bucky harrumphed, dragging Steve up the steps to their apartment building. "And what are you doing, getting into it with Thomas, hmm?"_

_Steve fished their key out of his pocket, using a dirty hand to turn it in the lock. "He was being disrespectful, talking about Maggie Willis and — and it wasn’t right. I told him to have some more respect, and then he hit me with a right hook." Steve grins sideways at him, already going to sit on the edge of the bed._

_Bucky wet a cloth and sat himself next to Steve. He gently took his face in his hands. "Stevie, what am I gonna do with you?" He pressed a light kiss to Steve's forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. Steve didn’t say anything, and Bucky wiped the dirt and blood away from his face. Steve's nose had stopped, which was good, but there was a bruise forming on his left cheek, and Bucky sighed. He placed the cloth there with the slightest pressure he could, but Steve still winced. Bucky leaned in and traced his lips over it, kissing his skin soft and gentle. "You're killing me here, Steve Rogers," Bucky whispered against him, biting on his neck for a moment. His hand was on Steve's waist and he squeezed, Steve's fingers running through his hair._

_Later, after Steve made dinner, they lay in bed, and Bucky came undone under Steve's touch. Under his whispers of, "Bucky, Bucky, Bucky," into his ear as he traced every part of his body. Bucky kept a hand wrapped around Steve's erection and jerked him off as Steve did to him, keeping silent as he kissed into Steve's shoulder so he wouldn’t cry out. Steve got up and cleaned them off, and Bucky pulled him into his arms under the sheets as soon as he was done, kissing the shell of his ear and tracing the bruise on his cheek with his index finger. Steve kissed at Bucky's chest and soon he was asleep, Bucky left wondering about all the ways he was there to protect Steve, and all the ways Steve didn’t need to be protected, but all the ways Steve would let him._

James — Bucky? Steve had called him that, so that must have been the name he went by, the name of who he was — Bucky was walking. He was out of the house and his feet were on the street outside, and he didn’t know where he was going, but his feet carried him into the city.

_James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038. Sniper. Captain America's right hand man. 32557038. Steve Rogers' best friend. Bucky. Steve's._

He looks up. An apartment building is in front of him, brown and dusty, cracks throughout the foundation and walls. But it still stands. He hears a TV, hears an animal, hears clanking noises, hears yelling.

_"Bucky! I ain't having this argument no more. Stop coddlin' me," Steve yelled, frowning at him from across the room. His chest heaved dangerously fast and heavy, a sight Bucky didn’t like, especially since Steve was already coughing more than usual today. He was a sight paler, too, but Bucky saw Steve square his shoulders and pause for a moment more times than he can count; Steve's trying to hide it, but he should know by now that Bucky always knows when Steve's sick._

_Of course, just because he's sick doesn’t mean Bucky's gonna relent any more than another day. "I ain't coddlin' you, Steve. You gotta stop this — you're gonna work yourself to the bone trainin', or give yourself a heart attack. You've already tried three times, give it up. They ain't taking you."_

_Telling Steve Rogers to give up was the biggest mistake anyone could make, let alone Bucky. Steve's nostrils flared. He coughed and said, "It's not about me, Buck. It's about what's right. I gotta do this. It ain't fair of me to sit by while soldiers are out there laying down their lives —"_

_"You won't be doin' nothing, there's plenty of jobs left in the factories, they need stubborn punks like you to keep the lines going," Bucky said, sitting down in the chair by the window._

_"That's not enough," Steve said. His voice was thick, and he tugged at his tie. "And you know that. I gotta join up, Buck."_

_"Or die tryin'," Bucky muttered, getting angry now. If Steve would just_ listen _—_

_"It's not like you would understand, Bucky!" Steve's face was flushed real red now. He wobbled a little on his feet. Bucky stood up. "You got 1A. You get all the jobs and the smiles and the dames throwing themselves at you. This is — this is something I could do —"_

_"You ain't gotta prove anything, Stevie." He stepped closer to Steve. "Everyone here in Brooklyn knows you're a fighter. I know you're a fighter. You can do anything else —"_

_"But this is what I wanna do, Buck." Steve swallowed. "I wannna fight. I wanna —"_

_Steve fell over then, and Bucky rushed to catch him, limp body wrapped in his arms. Steve's forehead was covered in sweat, his hair sticking there. His whole body was hot, and Bucky cradled a hand behind his head._

_"What am I gonna do with you, Stevie," he whispered, for what felt like the thousandth time, pressing his lips gently to Steve's cheek. He smoothed a hand over his thin hair before stripping him of his shirt and tie and pants, getting Steve into bed. Steve was practically still, small chest rising and falling just enough so Bucky could see it. He got a cloth and wet it, making sure the water was cold enough, and sat by Steve's side for an hour, the cloth pressed into his forehead and Bucky's hand running over his hair._

_Steve's eyes slowly opened and Bucky smiled soft at him. "Hey, Stevie." Steve swallowed and Bucky got up to get him a glass of water. "You did a real shit job at trying to hide your fever, you mook."_

_"Wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out," Steve shrugged, sitting up._

_"I knew all day. Wanted to see how long your stubborn ass would act like nothing's wrong." Bucky leaned in and pressed a kiss to Steve's forehead. "You don’t gotta do that, Stevie. You know that."_

_Steve sighed. "I know, Buck. Sorry for passing out on you like that. Even if you were being a jerk."_

_"We ain't talking about that no more," Bucky said. "At least for now. Now, you're gonna sit back in bed and stop being a punk for maybe three hours—"_

_"—Think I can only manage one —"_

_"—And you're gonna eat your soup and shut your trap," Bucky said, smacking him lightly on the arm. He paused, looking at Steve for a moment, then sighed. "Why'd I have to go and fall in love with the biggest handful in all of New York?"_

_Steve grinned at that, big and broad. "You complain a lot for someone who willingly puts my cock in his mouth so often."_

_The only reason Steve got away with it — besides the fact that it's true — was because he's sick, and Bucky won't ever shove him when he's coughing up a lung. "Shut up," he said instead, getting up to make Steve soup. Steve laughed hard, before he started coughing deep and dry, and Bucky ran back to give him more water._

He's on the roof, wind blowing through his hair. He — remembers. Steve. Small and tough, but also, bigger. Taller. Tougher. But Steve had stayed the same, where it mattered, and Bucky remembers feeling content and secure with Steve at his side in the war. When he would have Steve wrapped in his arms to protect him from the draft in their apartment.

He suddenly sits up straight. His body tells him it's 23:13. He should be back at base soon, or he will be punished.

Anything Pierce does to him, he decides, will be worth it, if he can sit here and think about Steve. If he can remember. Any punishment will be incomparable to what it feels like to lose Steve. Because he feels. Feels right now, the memory of Steve's touch, and he feels — happy? No, not completely.

He cries. He knows what crying from the pain of four broken bones feels like, but this is much worse. It feels like his chest is on fire. He cries and it rips him apart more than Pierce's chair does. He —

He misses Steve. Steve loved him. Steve cared about him. Steve touched him with gentle hands and looked at him with soft eyes. Pierce never does that. Pierce doesn’t love him. Only Steve. Only Steve.

Steve.

He falls asleep, but he still doesn’t dream. And he doesn’t keep track of time, just counts the times he sees the sun rise. Three. Three times he sees the sun rise, three times he remembers a time with Steve. First at the beach, second a few floors below where he sits, and the third in the war, far away from here — Brooklyn, his mind supplies — far away from any place Pierce has ever touched him, far away from any place he has taken the lives of others because Pierce told him, far away from any place tainted by Hydra. Steve is — Steve is the sunrise, Steve is bright and vivid and lovely and too pure to be ruined by the clouds of his missions, the darkness he brings. He is suddenly glad Steve is gone, so he doesn’t have to be alive knowing what his Bucky turned into; he doesn’t have to deal with that pain, that horror. Steve is safest frozen in the middle of the Atlantic, far away from him. Far away from The Asset.

And when they find him on the roof, pointing guns at his head, he smiles.

 

**_6\. why can't i say that i'm in love?_ **

(2014: Bucky is 97 years old)

Steve won't stop staring at him. He gets up, uncomfortable; he wants to go somewhere alone and dark, but Steve makes a noise. He turns back, and Steve also seems on the verge of tears.

"Bucky," he says, voice choked. His eyes are red and he looks in pain. That's — that's not allowed.

His mind supplies him with the briefest flash of a memory, and his feet are taking him towards Steve. His arms wrap around his body and Steve sucks in a breath, and he fears he's done something wrong, but Steve's arms envelop him immediately after, and his head rests on top of his. He thinks this is called a hug.

Steve's breathing is staggered, and despite James' — no. Bucky. Here he is Bucky. With Steve he is Bucky — but despite Bucky's caution about touching Steve, Steve hasn’t let go, is holding tighter in fact, so he can't assume he did something wrong.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Buck," Steve mumbles into his hair, breath warm. Something stirs inside Bucky's stomach and he holds Steve tighter involuntarily. He likes it. Steve breathes irregularly for a moment, letting out a breath almost like a gasp. "I was just — I missed you."

Bucky is confused. "You saw me last night."

"I know," Steve nods lightly, hand going into Bucky's hair. He likes it when Steve does that. He tilts his head into Steve's hand. Steve is kinder than the past seventy — Steve told him it was seventy years, and he has this innate knowledge of knowing Steve's a terrible liar, so he didn’t doubt it. He did cry for three hours afterwards, though, locked in the bathroom and Steve miserably begging for Bucky to come out. Steve doesn’t give up.

Steve runs his fingers through his hair some more, before letting them linger softly at the base of Bucky's neck. He tenses, years of braces and lashes coming to the forefront of his mind before they quickly dissolve. Steve's hand is warm and soft in a way straps or knives never were. Steve moves Bucky's head to rest on his shoulder, and he goes willingly, enjoying his time with Steve. His touch.

"I just wanted to make sure you're alright. You — you haven’t said much to me," Steve says, and his lips rest on the skin behind Bucky's ear and it's — he remembers, how much they used to touch each other, kiss, hold. Hands on skin fumbling in the dark, lips pressed hard together behind closed doors, warm embraces saved for special spaces. His heart lurches at that, a strange pull in his chest, the front of his mind clouded as he tries — _tries­_ to remember the last time he kissed Steve. He can't. He bites hard on his lip, frustrated, and his eyes sting, sight going blurry of its own accord.

"Hey, hey," Steve whispers, pulling back to look at him. He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry — I didn’t mean to upset you, I'm just worried is all. I — Jesus, Buck, you're shaking." Bucky hadn't realized. Steve swipes his thumbs under Bucky's eyes and they come away wet. "I'm sorry. Let me —" Steve moves him over to the couch, and he's still crying, he realizes. But Steve hasn’t told him to stop, or slapped his face so hard he bleeds. He isn’t going to. Bucky relaxes his shoulders, and Steve doesn’t touch him, just sits next to him, wringing his fingers together. Bucky is confused again, because Steve always holds him when he's upset, even when he tries to hide it, because Steve always knew. Steve looks at him worriedly, looking conflicted about moving closer to him or not. Bucky slides over so his knee is pressed against Steve's, which makes him visibly relax. But he is still silent. Bucky realizes he is waiting.

"When…" he starts, but his voice cracks. He takes a deep breath and stares at the coffee table, counting to ten and closing his eyes like Sam told him to do. He makes himself stop crying, and waits a few more moments before trying to speak again. Steve is patient; much more than Pierce ever was. He shakes his head; Pierce is dead, and he is safe, here with Steve. Steve who… loves him?

He tries again. "When was the last time — last time we kissed?"

Steve blinks at him. "1945," he says, swallowing hard. "Um, just before…" He looks away, frowning.

"I fell?" Bucky asks, breathing slowing down.

"Yeah, Buck," Steve nods, voice thick. His hand reaches out but he snaps it back, looking guilty. Bucky doesn’t know why. And he doesn’t want Steve to feel guilty around him. He leans his head closer to Steve, and Steve sighs, stretching his hand back out. It cups the back of Bucky's neck, warm and firm, his thumb running across his vertebrae.

He sees himself in a dark office, a file in his hand. He is in The Asset's uniform. There is a picture of Steve. And then — then he is in the woods in the winter, Steve's hand still on his neck, whispering and smiling. They kiss.

"I re — I remember," he tells Steve now, who makes a surprised noise. Steve's fingers twitch on his neck, and Bucky finds himself moving into Steve's space. He pauses, briefly, realizing what he wants. He hesitates. Steve hasn’t told him no, and promised he wouldn’t, but. Maybe this is a bad idea. Bad. Maybe Steve has someone else now, maybe he doesn’t want Bucky like that anymore, because —

"You can kiss me, if you want to, Buck," Steve interrupts his thoughts. Steve's other hand rests against Bucky's cheek, tentatively. Soft. Loving. His thumb runs over his bottom lip, and Bucky didn’t notice he was chewing on it. He relaxes, parting his lips around Steve's thumb. Steve smiles warmly at him and nods.

Even after all this time Steve knows Bucky too well.

Bucky smiles for a moment before leaning in further, and Steve comes to him halfway. When their lips meet, Bucky startles, his heart rate picks up, but he doesn’t pull away. This is familiar. This is safe. His hands move to Steve's waist automatically, and Steve sighs against his lips. Everything feels like... like 1945. Like things he can remember. It feels like. Home. Home was always with Steve. In their shabby apartment in Brooklyn. Much more than this. He knows why Steve stares at him now, what Steve wishes. Why Steve's hand always finds a way to press against his skin. Because that was _before_. Before was better.

Steve pulls away. And he's smiling at Bucky, just like how he used to, and Bucky is suddenly overwhelmed with all he remembers. He slumps into Steve's side, and Steve's hand settles warmly on his back.

"Can't tell you how long I've been thinking about that," Steve whispers into his hair.

Bucky smiles. A smirk. He lifts his head up, and his mind is reeling back to 1937. "Then why'd you stop kissin' me?"

Steve chuckles, eyes wide. "Don't be a jerk, I was easin' you into it."

"If I remember correctly," he pauses, humor in his eyes and smile, which Steve returns, "it was me who was teaching you all the tricks." Something is settling in his chest, and he feels a tight warmth. It — it's good. And his mind feels clearer, less of a blur. But. But he knows, that no matter how familiar it feels, it is still different. The knife strapped to his ankle burns at his skin, but Steve's hand on his knee feels much more promising.

His metal arm whirs between them, and Steve glances at it for a moment. Bucky instinctively moves it behind his back but Steve stops him. He grabs the arm, smiling softly at Bucky. Encouraging? Accepting? Accepting. Bucky — he isn’t sure how to deal with that.

He feels the pressure of Steve's fingers against his arm, much lighter and gentler than when they were on the helicarrier eight months ago. Steve takes his hand down Bucky's arm, thrumming lightly against some of the panels. Bucky's eyes are fixated, watching as Steve touches, embraces, this — this part of him. This thing that was a weapon. He was a weapon. He is —

Steve laces his fingers through the metal ones, and then he brings the hand to his lips, kissing each finger. Bucky stares. Steve squeezes the hand and drops them both into his lap. "Wanna refresh my memory?" Steve asks, glint in his eye.

Bucky makes a noise and it takes a moment for him to register it as a garbled kind of laugh. Steve's eyes scan over his face, and Bucky's lips move before he thinks about it. "Punk," and then he's rushing into Steve's space.

Whatever sound Steve makes is cut off by Bucky's mouth. His hands are on Steve's shoulders and he cranes his neck to the side, and Steve only presses further into him. Bucky's mind is racing. Racing full of memories he thought were lost forever. He only has to try, explore, attempt. Live. To remember them. To reach into the recesses of his mind he has to touch every part of this new world around him. This world he has with Steve. Lick into Steve's mouth and trace an old memory and make a new one. Ask Steve questions. Let Steve make him coffee. Don't shrink away when Steve stares because Bucky knows why he does. Bucky understands the feeling of being overwhelmed. Now, as he kisses Steve into the couch, he knows what missing something feels like. He remembers what this was like in another lifetime.

Steve's fingers are in his hair and Bucky can feel with each pull what Steve had been chasing. The familiar ways of their bodies, the new ways they can be with each other. They've both spent so long without.

Bucky had to adjust to Steve twice: once, after the serum, and again, now, after seventy years apart. Steve relearns Bucky in all the ways Bucky had to in 1943. There's knowing and there's also enterprise; figuring out all the ways old and new blend together to create something entirely different.

Bucky pushes further into Steve's mouth, swirling his tongue, and Steve groans. Bucky somehow knew that would happen. He smiles against Steve's mouth.

Steve pulls back, breathing hard. His eyes sweep over Bucky in a way he can't pinpoint the meaning of, but his heart swells anyways. But Bucky can't meet his eyes, thinking of how Steve probably used to look at him all the time. Easy as breathing. Bucky feels it between them but the air suddenly turns tense as Bucky's eyes slide farther away. As he curls deeper into himself because this is new for him but it's not new for Steve. And Bucky's body may remember but Bucky can't guarantee he ever will in the way Steve does so effortlessly.

"Buck," Steve says softly, reaching to cup around his face. He makes Bucky face him, but Bucky stares at the point between his brows. He hears Steve swallow. "You know I'm not — I'm not expecting anything from you. We don’t have to do this." He strokes his thumb along Bucky's cheek and gestures between them. "If you're not ready then — just tell me. We can take it slow. Or whatever you need. But if we do," Steve pauses, and is silent for so long that Bucky has to look him in the eyes. Steve was waiting, and now he holds Bucky's gaze, bringing his free hand to lace his fingers through Bucky's flesh ones. "But if we do, then I'm still not expecting anything from you. You give me what you have and that's more than enough. I — I'm just glad you're here. Now. You don’t have to be — I know you're not the same guy from 1934, and that's okay. I'm not asking you to be. I just. You don’t have to worry about that. If you were." Steve stops then, eyes imploring yet strong.

Bucky is reminded again that, even in this century, even after seven decades of separation and violence and torture, Steve still knows Bucky all too well.

He nods, and looks back at Steve. His fingers tighten around Steve's. Remembering now is living. Knowing the past is taking in the present day by day, headed toward a future. A future he can finally imagine, can see past the murky bubble of Hydra. Steve is there, in this future, just like he is in his past and present.

Steve's thumb stills on his cheek, waiting.

"I — I want to. Remember. I want to remember what this was like. Before." He waves his hand between his and Steve's chests. This sensation is new. Wanting something. Voicing this want and having it fulfilled. Steve is the kind he needed, the humanity he was missing. Then again, anything outside of Hydra is. But Steve. Steve is… his? Steve knows him. Steve loves him. The rest of the world does not. Steve is safe.

"I want to try," he continues, struggling for the words. "I want to — you — we. Make new memories. I don’t want to lose — this. No matter what I don't remember, I know I don't — this is important." He almost chokes on the word, his throat thick. Expression is new. But. Nice. Relieving. He likes it. Steve listens.

Steve takes a deep breath and looks down at their joined hands. He clears his throat and plays with Bucky's fingers. He traces the palm of the metal hand with his index finger, softly. He looks up at Bucky, Adam's apple working. "I — uh, good. I'm glad. Anything you need, I'll help you. If you want to — remember. Something. I'll help."

"I know you will," Bucky says, and can feel the honesty reverberating through his chest. He does _know_. Deep and innate and his. He smiles. "But —" And this is hard. Because he doesn’t want reservations with Steve, and knows Steve's not used to it, but this is different. And he does want reservations, because then nothing is completely his, if not. And he's not the same. And he needs space to figure out exactly who he is now.

This is the one thing he fears sharing with Steve. Steve doesn’t deny him, but this is new territory. And Steve's face is falling. Bucky wraps the metal hand around his finger.

"But sometimes helping me will be letting me — if I need to be alone, then you gotta let me. Even if it seems bad, Steve. Sometimes I just need to —" He stops, losing the words, or the will to speak them.

But Steve is there to finish his thoughts. He understands. Like always. Bucky knows this is a thing from before. "Of course, Buck." His hand is in his hair again. "I'll respect your space. Always. You don’t have to worry." And Bucky sees how earnest he is. His chest fills with warmth, and he flashes back to a darker space, Steve smaller and in his bed, Bucky in a chair next to him. That same look on Steve's face and that same feeling in Bucky's chest.

He nods at Steve and smiles again, and Steve returns it, sending another wave of warmth through Bucky's chest. And Bucky's mouth is curling up at the side. "So, was that better than 1945?"

Steve laughs and it is a beautiful sound. But then his eyes darken and his smirk matches Bucky's. "You know, I'm not sure. Think I'm gonna need to collect some more… data." His eyes glint and Bucky can't fight the pull that brings him back into Steve's space.

"Gotta make sure you're as accurate as possible," and he didn’t expect the growl in his voice when he spoke. And judging by the way Steve visibly shivers, neither was he. He smiles and Steve breathes hot and hard over his face.

Steve swallows before leaning in, and his nose brushes across Bucky's. "Think I'm gonna need about five more samples," he whispers, lips brushing Bucky's. And then he's kissing him full on, lips soft and warm.

Steve's hand tightens in Bucky's hair and Bucky involuntarily groans into Steve's mouth. Steve swallows the sound and sucks on Bucky's tongue, and then they're lying on the couch. Steve's body is pressed to his, and Bucky's hands are on his back, spanning the space between his shoulder blades.

This is good. This is safe. This is old and new and past and present and future. This is Bucky and Steve, how they've always been. Bucky feels it with each swipe of Steve's tongue across his teeth, in the way his fingernails scrape along his scalp with purpose. Bucky's body reacts with memories that his mind doesn’t yet know. And that's okay. Because soon his mind and body will be in tandem, one unit working together in this new century. With Steve. He feels something tucked deep in his chest, something burning brighter with every press of Steve's lips.

And that is the best part of being with Steve, the feeling. Things that are his and palpable and exciting. Emotion is new and enjoyable. This particular feeling is something he has not yet felt, something he has not yet experienced. There are lots of things left to be explored, but this comes with flashes of kisses in the woods and limbs tangled in the night and cloths over bloody faces and smiles across a room. This comes with smiles and touching. This comes with Steve. With more living.

He will keep this memory tucked away for a long time. He will hold onto this feeling as he used to hold onto Steve when they slept in the night. 

 

**_7\. im living for that day_ **

(2015: Bucky is 98 years old)

Steve is rarely awake before Bucky. That is why it is such a surprise to have his eyes open to the press of Steve's lips to his neck.

"Well, good morning," he says, and Steve hums into his skin. Bucky's metal hand finds its way to Steve's hair, the fingers soft on his scalp. Stark gave him the new arm six months ago. He can feel the drag of each fingertip against Steve's head, can feel how his blond hairs barely touch the plates at his wrist, can feel the slight movement of Steve's back under his elbow. He is still not used to the sensation. But he is grateful for it. "What's up?" Words come easier now. Some naturally with no explanation, and some with careful observation of the Avengers. And of sitcoms.

"I was thinking… wanna go to the zoo?" Steve nuzzles his nose in the skin under Bucky's ear. His body jumps at the sensation. His skin reacts to Steve in ways his mind doesn't. His mind and heart feel a warmth when Steve does things like make him chocolate chip pancakes at seven at night; or brush his hair back from his face whenever strands fall loose; or refills his coffee before it even gets cold; or kiss him gently with arms wrapped around his waist; or asks him what he wants for dinner even though he picked the night before. His skin buzzes and burns when Steve moves those hands lower, spanning fingers all across his body; or ghosts breath warm over his collarbone; or digs fingers into his shoulder blades; or presses up behind him, strong and unyielding, a hard press against his ass; or mouths hot at his thighs, stubble scraping across the skin there; or applies pressure to the spot below his ear, a curling sensation spreading all throughout his body.

It took quite a while for Bucky to understand that he is very much in love with Steve Rogers, and that was after prolonged exposure to Avenger family movie nights, when he watched men running through airports, serenades outside of windows, and kisses in the rain projected onto Stark's living room wall.

(Bucky tried the kiss in the rain idea. It was unsuccessful. Hair stuck to his skin and got in his eyes, and the water pouring down made the kiss sloppy. And Steve began coughing, which was undesirable. He rushed Steve home and kissed him right curled up under blankets on the couch.)

There were also multiple jokes — innuendos, he's learned; Steve told him he used to make those a lot in the 20th Century — from Steve's teammates, mostly Sam, Stark, and Barton.

Bucky likes Barton. He is funny. And a good listener. Or, just company, when needed. Bucky can sit in peace and comfort, and Barton can remove his hearing aids, and there is an air of content around them. He has learned some sign language, and teaches Barton Russian in return. He suspects it's too impress Natalia. Bucky doesn’t say that it is obvious Natalia is already impressed with him, given the way she looks at him. It's funny, Hawkeye being so blind. Sometimes this fact bubbles up from within Bucky's mind at random times, and amuses him, and he laughs. Laughter is good. He laughs with Sam a lot, and Steve. He smiles the most with Steve. It is hard not to — not to want to.

Bucky's been having a lot of good days and nights. The last bad night was mild at best; he stayed curled away in his room until the world stopped spinning and his mind stopped tearing him apart. The headache only lasted for a couple of hours. And Steve was there, waiting for him in the hallway when he was ready. Honestly, both of them know that Bucky's room is really only for when he needs to be alone; he hasn't lived in it since he remembered what he and Steve were before the war. And it's comforting, going to bed in Steve's arms every night. It's safe. Calm. Relaxing. Home.

So, naturally, he agrees to the trip to the zoo. He and Steve are out of their apartment in under forty-five minutes. This was, of course, after a shared shower and an entire pot of coffee was drunk between the two of them. Bucky likes coffee. He takes it black, strong and sharp like he used to drink it almost a century ago. Sometimes he puts a little bit of milk in there, to soften the taste. It's for moments when he feels relaxed, wearing the wool socks Steve gave him, curled up in his side. The drink is calmer this way, the way his life is now, without the financial or health stress he so often endured in the past.

"Do you remember the zoo before? It wasn’t really anything special 'till we were outta school, but I swear you loved it just as much as we woulda at nine," Steve smiles bright, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. It's a gorgeous day outside, and Bucky doesn’t mind the walk all the way into Manhattan for once.

He doesn’t mind the questions, either. Steve asks because he's curious. Or because he's about to launch into a story that Bucky will listen to so intently it doesn’t matter if he remembers or not. Steve's stories are soothing; the detail is earnest and animated. It's more rewarding when Bucky remembers enough to interject with a few of his own, and the smile on Steve's face when he does makes the pride in his chest flutter far more than it ought to.

This time, however, he remembers some right off the bat. "I remember dragging your skinny butt to the Park the first time, cause you didn’t wanna go. Said it was for _babies_ ," Bucky teases, knocking into Steve lightly. "And then you were dragging me whenever you were well enough and we weren’t too busy so you could go and draw all the animals. I remember that one time you got real close to the goat to show your drawing and it ripped the paper right outta your hand!" Bucky laughs hard now, like he did before. He's surprised by how clear of a memory that is in his mind, and he plays it over and over while they walk to make sure it stays with him.

Steve's hand is fisted in his shirtsleeve, and he's nearly bent over with how hard he's laughing. The sight is almost as beautiful as the sound. "Oh God, I forgot about that. I was so mad! And you were rolling on the ground laughing while I tried to get it back. Another one came up and bit my finger!"

"We had to rush you back home to make sure it wasn’t an infection, cause we weren’t about to check into a _Manhattan_ hospital for a _goat bite_ ," Bucky finishes, pausing in the walkway to keep both of them from losing their balance. Steve's head is on Bucky's shoulder, his whole body shaking with laughter. Bucky's hand goes to rest at the nape of his hair before he realizes it, but he's aware of his fingers curling affectionately around Steve's neck.

"God," Steve breathes, arm going around Bucky's waist. "I never got that drawing back, either." He chuckles a few more times, and Bucky gets lost in the feeling of Steve around him, of this easiness in his chest, the easiness of his mind. Everything is calm, stitched together in the best way, the way Steve helps it to be. The way he helps himself to be. He is happy. And that is something he hasn’t been for a long time, and something he does not take for granted.

Steve presses a kiss to his collarbone before peeling away, leading them down the path they were taking. They walk peacefully for a while, light conversation filling the space between them until they reach the zoo. It is not until they reach the entry arch that Bucky realizes they are holding hands. Steve's fingers are laced with his own, soft and warm, natural.

"You okay, Buck?" Steve asks. He's watching Bucky look down at their joined hands. This is something they could not do before, and yet, it feels like they did everyday.

He swallows, and squeezes Steve's hand. "Yeah. Everything's good. Come on, I was promised penguins." He smiles sidelong at Steve, who he can see relax, jaw unclenching itself from where it goes when he becomes cautious. He reaches his thumb up and slides it along Steve's cheek and jaw, and leans up to land a quick kiss on the side of his mouth. Something he can do now, somehow lucky enough to be in this time with Steve; to be free with Steve, in so many ways. To have him 70 years after losing him.

Steve returns the smile, circling his thumb around the back of Bucky's hand. "Just as long as we stay away from the goats."

"Okay, punk," Bucky smiles, tugging at Steve's hand. "It's your birthday anyways."

Steve startles. "Bucky, it —"

"I know it's tomorrow. Did you really think I'd forget?" He smirks at Steve. "Last year doesn’t count," he says pointedly when Steve opens his mouth.

"I wasn’t gonna —" he pauses. "Thank you, Buck." He looks long at Bucky, crescent eyes and curved lips. Bucky punches him in the shoulder. "You could've just said you wanted to go to the zoo for your birthday, dumbass. Your _ninety-eighth_ birthday. Jesus, are you a geriatric or a toddler?"

Steve laughs low and long at that, pressing himself closer to Bucky. "I just wanted to spend time with you. Didn't want it to be a big deal."

"Yeah, well, you're shit out of luck, Rogers. I remembered, and I'm making a big deal. Nothing's changed."

Steve smiles soft at him, and when he speaks his voice is heavy, but small. "Yeah, Buck. Nothing's changed."

Bucky grins at him, leading him farther into the zoo. Everything has changed, of course. Nothing stays the same over almost 80 years. Except —

Them. They haven’t changed. They're different people now, yes, but — but everything feels as it did in '35. They took this walk in the park eight decades ago, eighteen and in love, the only difference now being Steve's enhanced body and Bucky not feeling a beat of panic in his chest with Steve's hand in his like this. Doesn't feel anything but comfort, Steve pressed to his side now, the mill of people, the sounds of the Park and the city around them. It's shinier now, and louder, in the future, but calm all the same, strolling with Steve. Bucky knew this was what Steve meant, and reveres the sincere reciprocation.

Later, they head home, both of them full of hotdogs and pretzels, Bucky's mind full of new memories, Steve's arms laden with books, stuffed animal replicas, and two particularly obnoxious Mylar balloons that say "Have A Roarin' 9th Birthday!" and "Hope Your 8th Birthday Is A Real Hoot!"

("Really, Buck?"

"What? They were out of the one's for 98 year olds. I had to improvise."

"Jerk."

"Punk. You got mustard on your chin, by the way.")

Steve drops all his gifts unceremoniously on the couch when they get back to their apartment. There are still boxes all around; they only bought the place two weeks ago, much to Stark's protest. Bucky loves their new apartment, only a couple of blocks away from the one they got in '36. Much nicer, that's for sure.

"Buck," Steve says from behind him. He hums in appreciation when Steve's arms wrap around his waist, cheek pressed against his neck. "Thank you." He punctuates the sentence with a kiss. Then another, and another. "Think this is my favorite birthday."

Bucky snorts. "What about in '38 when we nearly burned down the apartment trying to make our own fireworks?"

"You mean when _you_ nearly burned down the place trying to _stupidly_ make fireworks which I was one hundred per cent _against_ ," Steve corrects in his ear, turning Bucky around to face him.

Bucky shrugs. "Coulda worked." And when Steve laughs it is the most comforting and beautiful sound in the world. "Come on," he takes Steve's hand. "Got one last present for ya. Close your eyes." He looks off towards the bedrooms and Steve goes visibly red.

"Oh," he says, ducking his head and following Bucky, eyes closed.

Once he's entered the room, he tells Steve to open his eyes. And the look on his face is priceless.

" _Bucky_ ," he exhales, running hands through his hair. Bucky watches as his eyes widen comically at the easels before him. The shelves of paints and pastels, charcoals and leads, the jars of brushes and pencils. One wall is covered in any drawings of Steve's that Bucky could collect, ranging from post-it notes to napkins, to full on masterpieces from the sketchbooks or canvases. He bought about twenty more each, stacked them in egg crates next to a new drawing table for Steve. A couple of empty easels lean against the wall, two already unfolded and propped up, cloths draped over them. A stool sits between them, Steve's current sketchbook sitting on top of it.

"Bucky," he repeats, walking around the room. "You didn't have to — How did you —"

"Happy birthday, Stevie," Bucky says. He twiddles his fingers as he waits for Steve to turn around. He watches Steve's shoulders soften, his head shake in the slightest.

"You —" Steve cuts himself off as he stalks towards Bucky, curling his hands around his back. He leans down and kisses Bucky, soft, and long, and slow. Hands moving up to his hair, fingers threading through. Bucky spreads the fingers of his metal hand over Steve's chest, pressing deep into that spot between his lungs, like he used to before. Steve pulls back, forehead resting against his. "I —"

"I know," Bucky says. And the best part is, he does.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> im kind of offended at the amount of research i did only for civil war to come out and make half of what i've written moot (like pierce's presence was totally acceptable until they brought karpov in for the movie thanks marvel)
> 
> thanks for reading :)


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